


Sick Daze

by DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee



Series: Son of a Spider [6]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Hawkeye (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: (in college), Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Avocados at Law, Awesome Natasha Romanov, Everyone Needs A Hug, F/M, Families of Choice, Found Family, Gen, Matt Murdock & Foggy Nelson Friendship, Matt Murdock Needs a Hug, Sick Character, Sick Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-03
Updated: 2016-03-03
Packaged: 2018-05-24 12:06:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6153226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee/pseuds/DeerstalkerDeathFrisbee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone gets sick sometimes.  </p>
<p>Featuring each member of the Barton-Romanov-Murdock-Bishop family (plus Foggy) battling sickness and health.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sick Daze

**Author's Note:**

> I have a terrible cold and decided to self-medicate with fluffy self-indulgent sick fics.   
> And yes, that is a pun in the title. I couldn't help it. 
> 
> A huge thank you to everyone who has supported this fic so far, you all are wonderful.

**Matt**

            When Matt was thirteen he got hit with the worst case of flu imaginable. For a week he coughed, hacked, wheezed, sweated and moaned through his waking hours and slid uncomfortably in and out of unconsciousness through the night. For about two days of the seven days of hell he couldn’t keep anything solid in his stomach for more than an hour. His daily calorie intake could be measured in the number of 7-Up cans slowly piling up on his beside table.

            Natasha found him curled up on the bathroom floor after his third round of dry-heaving into a trashcan, sense reeling, not sure which way was up, tears leaking out of his eyes because all his senses were dull and off-kilter and the acrid reek of bile was slowly smothering him.

            She ran cool, slender fingers through his sweat-soaked hair and murmured soft nothings in Russian until he calmed down. Then, as if by magic (- how did Clint get over here, how did Matt not hear him coming, oh god, it was like being really, actually _blind_ , and Matt _hated_ it -) Clint was there, wrapping him in a blanket and carrying him out of the room.

            “Where are we going?” Matt rasped, too drained to bother protesting the treatment.

            “Out to the car, kiddo,” Clint said, tucking the blanket in tighter around him as if Matt were three, not thirteen, “Nat’s going to clean up the apartment so you don’t have to smell anything.”

            Matt snorted, “I smell everything.”

            “Well, she’s gonna make sure you smell Windex, not sick.”

            That didn’t sound too bad, actually. Matt, out of energy and words to say, yawned and curled up tighter in the blanket (it was so _soft_ , like some kind of _cloud_ ) and mumbled, “Okay, Clint. Thank you.”

            Clint sighed, “No problem, kiddo.”

**Foggy**

            “We have the worst luck, man,” Foggy groaned. Matt, out of energy, just nodded and flopped his head onto his best friend’s shoulder. Junior year of undergrad and they both had sinus infections and Matt’s sense of direction was _shot_. He’d run into three walls before Foggy just stumble-dragged him home, where they microwaved Cambell’s soup, built the laziest blanket fort ever and just sort of collapsed in front of the TV.

            “This always happens,” Foggy continued, spoon clicking dully against the chipped ceramic mug he was slurping soup out of because in their cold medicine haze neither roommate had remembered to run the dishwasher the night before and there were no clean bowls left, “We always get sick at the same time.”

            “Well, I am medically fragile,” Matt tried to say facetiously, but just ended up sounding pathetic.

            Foggy smacked him between the eyes with the spoon. Matt wrinkled his brows because gross, _germs._ “Now you’re just playing for sympathy. Well your devilish puppy-eyed powers won’t work on me, Murdock. I’m immune. To you. Not the devil-virus you brought home with you.”

            “Not a virus. An infection. Got antibiotics and everything.” Complete sentences were too much work, Matt decided as he gave up the fight with gravity and just slumped completely to the floor.

            “Yeah. True,” Foggy yawned, “You wanna turn on _Cats_? That’s a good trippy sick-movie.”

            As soon as Foggy discovered Matt’s love for musicals (“Literally the whole plot is sung, Foggy, they’re perfect”) and Matt realized that Foggy’s obsession with all things Broadway ran Grand Canyon levels of deep, they set about purchasing every recorded version of stage classics they could get their hands on. _Cats_ was the perfect one for sick days. Because, as Foggy said the first time this happened, “It’s so trippy it only makes sense when accompanied by lots and lots of cold medicine.”

            So they sat on the floor and suffered to a soundtrack of anthropomorphized felines until the Nyquil finally kicked in and they drifted off to the tune of ‘Memory’.

**Kate**

            “I can’t understand you, Kate. It sounds like you have something in your mouth,” Matt was laughing at her. She could tell. Hell, she could _see_ the corners of his eyes twitching as he tried to contain his mirth. His poker face was total shit.

            “Screw you,” she grumbled but it came out sounding a lot like “Scoo fuu” because, well, she did have something in her mouth. Several stiches and four less teeth.

            “How the hell did you avoid getting your wisdom teeth out, Matty?” Foggy asked, handing Kate jello because _he_ was a _good_ fake-brother.

            Matt shrugged, “I only have two and they fit in my mouth fine, so,” he shrugged.

            Foggy shook his head and reached over to ruffle his hair, “Freak of nature.”

            Matt just grinned his smug I-am-a-superior-being-aren’t-I-adorable grin. Kate threw a pillow at him and gave a garbled cheer when it connected with his face. Take that, painkillers! She may be down some wisdom teeth but girl still got game!

**Clint**

            Clint understood. Natasha’s first priority would always be Matt’s safety. He was her son. Hell, he was there first. And, frankly, after what Loki did to Clint’s brain, the archer wasn’t sure he trusted himself around the kid anyway. So when Natasha said, voice quiet, “Matt was worried about you,” oddly direct for her, Natasha’s mind was a maze and anything straightforward she said, especially about feelings of any kind, was suspect, Clint was already shaking his head before she could complete the thought.

            “You want me to keep clear of the kid for now. That’s fine. I’m. Fine.” He pressed his lips and palms together, crushing the air, “Really.”

            She gave him one of those fathomless looks of hers, the ones that made him want to peel back her layers, peer inside and see what gears turned in the darkest corners of her mind. “I understand,” was all she said and he assumed she was relieved.

            But Matt found them. Sought them out. Like a blind bloodhound. In the shawarma place Tony dragged them to in the aftermath of the battle, the kid’s sharp, harsh black and white suit like a bright, clean exclamation point in the midst of all that dust and dirt and blood. He’d abandoned his cane like an idiot and Clint crushed the paternal urge that begged him to march over there and berate boy (man, when the hell did that happen, little Matt was a man now, with an internship at a prestigious law firm and two more degrees than Clint would ever hold in his hands, all grown up and _when the hell did Nat’s ninja baby grow up_?) for his carelessness, check him over for injuries like he used to when Matt was a middle-school monkey with more daring than sense. But he didn’t, he just watched as Matt, pristine in all this grayscale darkness, said, “Mom?” in the pained, rasping voice that said his eyes were bright with silent tears behind his tinted glasses.

            Clint watched as Natasha, normally so full of grace, flung herself off her chair and limped-ran over to where her son stood and drew him into a hug, letting him rest his forehead against her shoulder and drag in rough breaths as he held on tight and let her comb her fingers through his hair. Then the kid raised his head, glasses eschew, hazel eyes unfocused and fever-bright, rimmed in red. “Clint? He’s back, right? I can hear him.” He asked in Russian for some reason. That hit Clint in the chest, hard. Like a punch to the heart. He remembered a conversation, a long time ago now, in a flea market, about sing language and braille and Russian. A boy and a man. A long time ago.

            “Yes, he’s here,” Natasha replied in the same language, somehow softening the harsh syllables.

            “Clint?” No matter the language, his name stayed the same. And he couldn’t lie to Matt; it simply wasn’t possible. And it wasn’t just because the kid was a human polygraph.

            “Yeah, kiddo.” Clint’s voice was rough from dust and disuse. He kept up the Russian, though. It only seemed fair.

            “You’re coming home, right?” And Matt looked so painfully _young._

            “I’m,” Clint wasn’t sure what to say, “I’m not, ah, the same. I might not be safe.”

            Matt blinked at him, “Since when was anything safe?”

            Natasha was glaring at him without moving her facial muscles, and Clint squinted at her, trying to decipher her expression. There was something in her eyes. Something soft and vulnerable. Her lips rolled, pressing together. Crushing the air.

            Clint stared at his family helplessly, “You two seriously want me to join this group hug nonsense?”

            “You’re part of this family too,” Natasha forced the words out, sticking to Russian, hiding behind the veil of her mother tongue, “So join the damn hug before we go back to being emotionally repressed.” There was a smile at the corner of her eyes.

            So Clint limped over to hold his wife and son tight.

            “What the actual hell is going on?” Tony griped in the background.

**Nat**

            “You aren’t sick.”

            “Good job stating the obvious, Polygraph.” Natasha didn’t get sick. Matt was pretty sure she scared the germs into submission.

            “The message said you were sick, come to the safehouse.”

            “I don’t get sick, Polygraph.” Her could hear the wry twist to her lips, “But I do get injured.”

            “Fighting the Winter Soldier.”

            “Yes.”

            Matt wrinkled his brow, the equation coming together to give him variable X, Y and Z in his head. “You seriously sent me a distress message to keep me from going after the Winter Soldier.”

            “Mmm.” Natasha hummed.

            “Mom, I thought you were _dying_! I thought that was code for something horrible!” He sighed and sagged, “I was scared for you. The news was…not helpful.”

            “I’m fine, Polygraph.” He heard her pat the couch beside her, “Now, sit with me and keep me entertained until Steve and Sam get back.”

            “You mean, sit here and don’t go after the guy who did this to you.”

            “Precisely. I am your mother. I keep you safe.”

            Matt sighed like he was so very put upon, but he settled on the sofa beside her and leaned her head on her good shoulder like he used to when he was very small, careful not to jostle her stitches.


End file.
